


because i could not stop for Death -

by badgerterritory



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6239527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badgerterritory/pseuds/badgerterritory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The girl, the healer girl, asked her what her name was, and Lexa said, loudly and clearly, in the same English as the Sky People, “Fuck off.”</p><p>(wherein lexa is a necromancer and clarke finds herself strangely attracted)</p>
            </blockquote>





	because i could not stop for Death -

**Author's Note:**

> got another necromancer au story in me but first i'm doing a modern au story

It wasn’t widely known, but necromancers weren’t born with the black blood. There were always stories of people finding infants with black blood and leaving them for the wild animals, who would naturally sense their corruption and refuse to eat them, but as far as Lexa was aware, she wasn’t born with black blood. Anya wasn’t, either.

She’d been seven when her blood started to turn. Anya said it was the age most necromancers started, and Lexa had no reason to disbelieve her. She’d mentored other necromancers before, often from an even younger age than she found Lexa.

But they’d discovered Anya, and Anya had barely had time to force Lexa to flee. She had a few bags, packed with whatever they could throw in. Lexa didn’t even know; she was still in shock over her sister, her mother, being fed to the flame. Lexa fled Polis, back to the place she was born. She stayed there for a single night and fled again.

In the forest, she took stock of her belongings. A handful of books on necromancy and necromancers. A few pieces of petrified wood Anya liked. The start of a necklace Lexa had been making for Anya. Two blades, one dagger and one hunting knife. Anya’s hitting stick, as she fondly called it. Lexa had a few memories of the staff, and most of them weren’t fond; its appearance usually heralded Lexa’s bruises and at least one broken bone. She healed quickly, but still.

Lexa quickly considered breaking the staff over her knee, and discarded the idea. It’d be useful, probably. And Lexa didn’t want to risk breaking a leg when she needed full mobility. Knowing Anya, and the way the stupid thing felt, it was made of steel that just looked like wood.

And then the Sky People fell.

Lexa investigated their craft before any Trikru. She spent a few days observing and left before Trikru arrived. One of the Sky People caught her eye, though, a girl with beautiful, fair hair. It was enough to drag her back two nights later to watch, and again the next night as they clashed with Trikru. She watched as the girl acted the healer, tending to her people injured by Trikru. A few died, and Lexa considered offering her services, but she didn’t know how they treated their necromancers, if they even had any. One hundred and no blackbloods was telling, to her. When the warriors gathered to attack the Sky People, Lexa hid among them.

And burned.

 

“Fucking shit,” Lexa said under her breath, kicking over corpses to see if any still had intact cloth. She found a scrap and pulled it free, ignoring the burned flesh sloughing off, and wrapped it around a still-healing cut. She hissed as she felt her body stop healing the cuts to purge toxins from her blood. She swore a few more times, in English and Trigedasleng. She found another scrap, and secured another wound, preventing more of her black blood from spilling. It mixed nicely with the charred corpses, but if there was enough of it spread around, someone could figure it out.

She didn’t really appreciate being burned alive. Conventional belief held that only fire could kill a necromancer, and there was a certain truth to that. That truth was Anya, dying over and over, burning alive until she ran out of magic.

Of course, swearing wasn’t as satisfying as it could have been; Lexa’s ears hadn’t fully regenerated, and everything was heard dully over a constant ringing.

After she had the worst of the cuts wrapped, which at least prevented her from bleeding everywhere as she healed, she noticed the Sky People, and grumbled a few more choice words for her inattention. The girl, the healer girl, asked her what her name was, and Lexa said, loudly and clearly, in the same English as the Sky People, “Fuck off.”

The healer girl shared a glance with a boy and said, “We can’t let you leave.” He raised his gun, and the girl added, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to come with us.”

Lexa glanced between the two, who seemed to be the leaders, and shrugged. There was nothing among Trikru but the pyre and nothing in the forest except a very long and lonely life; there was no reason she couldn’t play prisoner for a while. She followed the healer to their massive steel home, that thing which had burned her. They put her in a room and left a guard while they worked outside. When it became night, Lexa left, slipping past the sleeping guard, going to the forest and grabbing her things. She returned to the room, although she couldn’t figure out how to lock it from the inside, so she simply left it unlocked as she hid her possessions and then started reading from one of the books, using light from her fingers.

The next morning, the healer introduced herself as Clarke and asked how Lexa got free. Lexa was tempted to tell her that her guard was asleep, but didn’t. Instead she stayed silent. The questions kept coming. “How many warriors are left” and “How did you survive” and so on. Lexa wasn’t sure whether or not she approved of the interrogation style; there was no torture, not even any applied duress or threats. Clarke simply asked her questions, waited, and asked more.

Lexa quickly figured out the schedule they were on. They fed her twice, once in the morning and once in the evening. Clarke came between meals; probably at noon, when the sun was highest. She asked questions, then left.

One day, Clarke came in and sat down, but didn’t ask any questions. Instead she said, “I’m sure you know we came from the sky. From _orbit_ , actually.” Lexa frowned at the unfamiliar word, which Clarke caught. “The station we were on, the Ark, it’s… floating at a certain height, permanently. That’s what orbit is.” Clarke paused, watching Lexa’s face, then continued. “The Ark, that’s what we called home. We were dying, that’s why they sent us down here. Birds in a coal mine. If we die, it’s not safe.”

Lexa didn’t respond. Clarke wasn’t looking at her like she sometimes did, looking for answers. She was looking at a book that Lexa had accidentally left out. But Clarke didn’t ask about it. Instead, she added, almost idly, “I think about my mother a lot. If she thinks I’m dead.”

And she left.

Lexa waited until the count of fifty to say to the empty room, “You’re lucky she’s alive, Klark kom Skaikru.”

 

The day after, Clarke came in again and, again, talked. About the people in camp, and why they were sent down. Lexa knew Clarke was trying to make her care about them, but she didn’t bother saying that she barely cared about her own people. She’d only cared for two people, and they were both dead, given to the pyre.

Before Clarke left, she laid a hand on Lexa’s book. She’d started leaving it out, since they weren’t going to take it away, and they couldn’t read it, since it was in Trigedasleng. Clarke asked, “What’s this about?”

Lexa very deliberately didn’t say, though she was tempted to for a moment. Clarke left without another word.

The next day, Clarke delivered her food and sat, as usual, but instead of talking, she just looked at Lexa. When she did start speaking, it actually surprised Lexa. “Do you have a mother?” Clarke asked. She looked at Lexa for a moment, then away. “I was thinking about my mom again. She did… things. Awful things. And I’m still worried about whether or not she thinks I’m dead.” She let out a dry chuckle. “Who am I kidding, grounders probably hatch out of pinecones or something.”

“I had a mother.” The voice surprised both of them, and it surprised Lexa even more when she realized it was hers. She forged on. “They burned her alive. I listened to her scream while I escaped.” To Clarke’s horrified face, she added, “My name is Lexa.”

Clarke didn’t seem to know what to say. She reached out and squeezed Lexa’s arm.

 

Lexa was reading by handlight when she felt the death. She set the book aside and followed the tugging feeling, the feeling that guided her to death and illness. She found everyone gathered around a young girl, whose chest Clarke was pressing down on. Lexa pushed Clarke out of the way and put her hands on the dead girl.

Tainted water. She’d have been sick for a few hours before collapsing in convulsions, and dead within minutes after that. It was a parasite in some sources of water. They probably didn’t know to purify it. Lexa brought the girl back to life, then purged the tainted water out of her. The girl came to life gasping, trying to work her lungs again, and Lexa rubbed her back and spoke in English, “The first time is hard, I know, close your eyes, you’re back,” and kept talking until Clarke grabbed her and pulled her away.

“How did you do that?” Clarke hissed.

So they didn’t have necromancers. Lexa unwound the cloth that she’d kept around her supposed wounds, then grabbed her dagger from its hiding place and, staring Clarke in the eye, cut open her palm. Black blood dripped, then stopped, as the wound closed itself. She wiped off the excess blood and showed Clarke her hand.

“I’m a necromancer,” Lexa said. “We’re rare. Trikru, my people, burn us as abominations of nature that cannot be allowed to live, to unbalance life and death. They burn us alive. The time it takes to overpower our ability to heal varies. Sometimes a few hours, sometimes a few days.”

Clarke’s hand covered her mouth. A moment later she murmured, “You mentioned your mother…”

Lexa slipped the dagger back into its hiding place and then sat. Clarke sat, too, next to her. “She didn’t birth me. I don’t know who did. But she was my mother in every way that matters. She took me in, trained me, taught me that my power isn’t an evil to be feared. She was powerful and wise. She refused to teach me to kill with my necromancy, because it would give me away where a knife wouldn’t.” Lexa folded her hands in front of her and focused on them so she could get the words out. “In the end, she gave herself away. They were suspicious of me because of something stupid I did, and in order to protect me she did something stupid. And got caught. But she gave me enough time to get away.”

Clarke didn’t seem to know what to say again. She reached out and put her hand on Lexa’s, and a moment later she moved closer. Lexa let her. Clarke put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. Lexa let her do that, too, and if she leaned into Clarke, well, she’d kill anyone who dared suggest it.

 

Lexa balanced herself on one hand, the other splayed out along with her leg for balance. She’d been holding that position for nearly a minute, and her arm was starting to ache. When she saw a girl’s legs, she brought her hand back down and let her feet fall, riding that motion to a graceful stand.

The girl she’d saved, Heather, was small and thin, though Lexa could tell she hadn’t always been. Clarke was standing behind her and gave a little wave. Lexa ignored both of them and moved into a different form. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Heather trying to mimic her, and Clarke rushing to catch her as she fell. She ignored them until Heather tried again.

“You have to start with an easier form,” Lexa said, not looking in their direction. “Most of these aren’t even possible for someone who doesn’t heal like I do. Here, try to copy this.” She moved into a different set of exercises, which would be much more forgiving to a beginner and child. Heather tried to mimic her, and Lexa adjusted her stance, then her posture. She taught Heather until the girl was about to fall over, conscious all the time of Clarke’s eyes on her.

The next morning, Clarke greeted her instead of approaching silently. “I don’t know why we even bother putting a lock on the room.” Lexa agreed, but didn’t say so. She looked at Heather, who copied Lexa’s pose. Once again, Lexa adjusted her, then taught her, and Clarke watched the entire time.

By the end of the week, Heather could hold the form with ease, and other people came to learn.

And Clarke watched.

 

In the end, it was someone Lexa didn’t know. She was grateful for that, at least.

She didn’t make a sound as the sword was driven through her. She didn’t want to give the assassin the pleasure.

 

When she woke up, it was to Clarke’s face.

She didn’t even hear whatever Clarke said; she just smiled, and kissed her.


End file.
